


pint of shame

by andaemon



Category: Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: BDSM, Begging, Bladder Control, Desperation, Dirty Talk, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Omorashi, Power Play, Teasing, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26846215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andaemon/pseuds/andaemon
Summary: Roger has long showers. Mark has had too much coffee.Warnings in notes.
Relationships: Mark Cohen/Roger Davis
Kudos: 26





	pint of shame

**Author's Note:**

> Most kinks are tagged for but there is a more thorough explanation in the end notes. I encourage you to read them if you want to screen for potential squicks/triggers.

The mid-morning sun was shining through the grimy windows of the loft, and Roger Davis was using up all the hot water _again_. 

Ordinarily Mark wouldn't mind so much. He was an early morning showerer - for this exact reason - and Roger's shameless shower singing could occasionally inspire endearment. But Mark was on a caffeine-fuelled editing spree on this particular morning, and the three cups of coffee and litre of Coke he'd downed in quick succession were knocking on the inside of his lower abdomen, demanding to be let out. Mimicking the rhythm, he pounded on the bathroom door with a closed fist. 

"Roger!" he shouted over his roommate's singing. "Hurry up. I have to piss." 

The singing stopped and, after a moment, so too did the running water. Mark huffed a short sigh of relief, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He heard the noise of the shower curtain being pushed aside, heard Roger whistling to himself as he towel-dried his hair. He was taking his sweet time. _Fucking hell,_ Mark thought, rolling his eyes. God forbid Roger Davis ever be speedy at anything. After somewhere between one and five long minutes, Mark knocked again. There was now an uncomfortable pressure beneath the waistband of his jeans.

"Open the fucking door!" he yelled. "I need to piss!" 

After what felt like an age, the door creaked open, revealing Roger, damp-haired, silhouetted in hot steam. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and leaned lackadaisically against the doorframe, blocking the entrance to the bathroom. Mark's lip curled in frustration. "You need to what?" Roger asked. His voice was low and slow. 

"Piss!" Mark shouted, for the third time. His bladder throbbed at the word, causing him to wince. He had a sudden hazy fantasy of relieving himself on the fire escape, instead of having to stand here and be tortured by Roger's... whatever this was. Damn his sense of propriety. 

Roger let his gaze pan slowly over his roommate, taking in the grimace of discomfort, the shifting stance, the way his thighs were pressed ever so slightly together. "So I see," he said. He made no move to step out of the way. 

"So can you move?" demanded Mark, the edge of a whine creeping into his voice. When Roger said nothing, merely continuing to block the door, Mark attempted to shove past him, driven by impatience and more than a little desperation. A mistake: he made it into the bathroom, but Roger quickly flung an arm around him before he could take another step, his strong forearm pressing dangerously close to Mark's bladder. "Shit!" the filmmaker yelped, feeling a dribble of liquid escape from the tip of his dick. He clamped down quickly, hands clenching into fists, praying to god that he hadn't stained his jeans. A single glance at his roommate's face was enough to prove that the pressure point was no accident; Roger was smirking, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he watched Mark squirm. "Roger, what the _fuck?_ "

The singer stepped back, letting his eyes rake over Mark once more. His roommate was flushed in the face and beginning to tremble, one hand pressed to his crotch. "You're so pretty," Roger murmured, "when you're desperate." 

"What..." _the fuck_ , Mark tried to say again, except he couldn't quite manage to form the words. He took in the singer's blown pupils, the intensity of his stare. "You're..." _into this_ , he wanted to say, but he was limited to monosyllables at the moment. It was too hard to talk and hold at the same time, let alone process the newfound realisation of his roommate's fucked-up kink. 

"You can piss," Roger said, "when I say you can piss." 

Mark felt a whimper building at the back of his throat, tried to hold it back, but he didn't have enough self-control for all of this, something had to give, and so he let out a sort of shaking gasp, feeling an unmistakeable shiver of pleasure at Roger's tone even as his bladder gave another painful throb. This was fucked up, whatever it was, people could injure themselves doing this kind of shit, but Roger was looking at him like he was a meal, or some sort of toy, as he shivered and squirmed and blushed, and he didn't want to piss himself in front of Roger, he didn't want to beg, but he wanted Roger to keep looking at him like that, yes, with his eyes dark and hungry, god, he liked it, he liked it, he didn't want it to stop. 

"That's it," Roger whispered. He undid the towel and threw it aside, and Mark felt his dick twitch in a whole different way at the sight of Roger's erection. "You can piss," Roger said, "when I come." 

" _Fuck,_ " Mark whispered, actually having to close his eyes for a second. He felt dangerously close to passing out. When he opened them again Roger was working his own dick in long, lazy strokes. It was almost enough to make Mark forget about his desperate need to pee. He could hear the blood roaring in his ears. 

"Strip," Roger commanded. 

Mark gaped at him, having to work to process the meaning of such a simple word. A second later it hit him, along with another punishing twinge of his bladder. "God," he muttered, bending slightly at the knees in an attempt to wriggle his way into a more comfortable position. He quickly undid the button and zipper of his jeans - a slight, blessed relief - then pulled his T-shirt inelegantly over his head, knocking his glasses askew in the process. When he had righted them and could see properly again Roger had upped his pace, flicking the ball of his thumb over the head of his dick and his tongue over his lips as he watched Mark struggle out of his clothes. The filmmaker shuddered at the sight, feeling the flush in his cheeks spread throughout his whole body, pushing his jeans and boxers down over his hips, stepping out of them and flicking them across the tiled floor. Bending over to remove his socks made the pressure on his abdomen worse. He whined quietly in protest, and was rewarded with a gasp from Roger. 

"That's it," the singer murmured, his eyes half-lidded as filth spilled from his lips. "You desperate little bitch. You must be aching. God, it's hot to see you like this." For a few seconds his strokes became jerky and ragged, picking up in pace, before he caught himself and slowed back down. "Not just yet. Want to make you... squirm a little more." 

Mark was squirming indeed, his thighs clamped tightly together now, writhing in position on the spot. He was desperate and uncomfortable and breathless and aroused. The combined phenomena of his urgent need to piss and the sight of Roger masturbating in front of him were almost overwhelming. He clenched his fists, trying not to moan. Mark wondered if it was actually possible to break something inside while doing this, or if his dick would just give up and let it out, even as his mind was screaming for him to hold it, to show Roger that he could do this, to wait until Roger said it was okay. Even the briefest thought of _letting it out_ nearly undid him - he felt a spurt of urine escape his aching, half-hard penis before he could hold it in, his hand shooting out to grip at his dick. "Fuck," he gasped, barely keeping the rest of the flow at bay. Sweat broke out over his forehead. "Roger -" 

"What?" But Mark had seen the way Roger's teeth bit into his lower lip at the sight of Mark at the very edge of his control, the way his hand moved more rapidly now, his movements less controlled. The tiny part of Mark's brain that wasn't concentrated in his bladder felt a thrill of pride and anticipation. He wanted to see Roger come apart, wanted to witness him at his breaking point, the way that Mark was. 

"Please," groaned Mark, as another spasm of pain shot through his abdomen. "I can't... I want to..." 

Roger's face was flushed now, his mouth slightly open, his fist pumping in a steady rhythm. "Want to piss?" he drawled. The timbre of his voice, pitched low, and the sibilant word were like twin punches to Mark's lower belly. "Want to _let go?_ " 

And - oh - it was almost too much, he was going to lose it, he really was, but the thought came to him that if he failed now maybe Roger would stop, too, and more than anything else he didn't want Roger to stop. Mark gritted his teeth, his vision narrowing until all he could see was Roger's face and Roger's hand. "Want to watch you come," he hissed. 

"Oh, god," said Roger quietly, and it was worth it, all of it, to hear those words pulled from his lips in a tone of absolute reverence.

They were so close, both of them, Mark could see himself mirrored in the sweat on Roger's face, the flushed cheeks, the ragged breathing. But Roger had to be first, that was the rule, and Mark wasn't above begging after all. "Please, Roger," he gasped, his voice stripped of any expression that wasn't _need_ , "please -" 

"Fuck, fuck, _Mark,_ " and then Roger made a noise that was half-moan and half-sigh and all hot, cum spurting out over his torso and his fingers as he slumped back against the bathroom wall with his release. Mark felt in that instant that he would have come, too, just from the sight and the sound, if he had not been so all-consumed with a more pressing desire. "Roger," he said, the pressure cresting now, unstoppable, and then Roger was saying, "Yes, _here,_ " and his hand was curled over Mark's, pulling Mark closer as he let go, finally, with a cry of relief and shame, and he was pissing between them both, over both of them, in one long desperate stream accompanied by unbelievable relief, the spray drenching their bellies and running down their legs to pool on the tiled floor. 

For a few seconds there was silence except for their shaky breaths. Mark couldn't look up to meet Roger's eyes, his vision instead trained downwards on the mess they had made of the tiles. Mess _he_ had made. He felt Roger's hand grip the back of his neck, blunt fingernails digging into his skin, forcing his head up so that he met Roger's gaze. Roger stared at him for a moment, the silence stretching, until Mark began to think that maybe he would never speak, that they would never talk about this bizarre, unexpected, inexplicably incredible thing that had happened between them. 

Then Roger said, "That was _fucking amazing,_ " and steered Mark with a gentle hand towards the shower.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains omorashi (arousal due to someone having a full bladder), masturbation, and wetting with elements of powerplay and humiliation. Mark does a bit of internal kinkshaming and Roger makes him strip naked and calls him some filthy things in the name of dirty talk. Although they're both Into It, consent isn't explicitly gained, there's no protection, and it's a bit soft on aftercare. If this kink isn't your thing, go gently. If it is, enjoy.


End file.
